Erogenous
by heists
Summary: Kaldur and Artemis do a little experimenting. :: Kaldur/Artemis. For morallyambiguous on tumblr. T for reference to sexual themes. Shirtless Kaldur. Tattoos. Hair pulling. Yup.


So this was written for angieawesomesocks over on tumblr, who prompted some Kaldur/Artemis with focus on Kaldur's tattoos and Artie's hair.

I was more than happy to oblige. I hope you enjoy it, dear! =D

* * *

><p>The first time it happens, it's a happy accident.<p>

He's giving her swimming lessons, because she's not the strongest swimmer (perhaps the one skill her father neglected to establish beyond the basics) and she's still fighting off a slight phobia of dying a slow, watery death. He's adjusting her form—in a particularly _hands-on_ way, no less.

They're face-to-face, barely a body's distance apart, waist deep in the water, and he's showing her the finer points of the freestyle stroke. To say her concentration is a little off would probably be an understatement, with her leader (her undeniably _attractive_ leader) so close.

"Turn your wrist so it slices into the water," he demonstrates, his hand around her wrist (_so distracting_), "and then pull the water with your hand, with your fingers like this—" he pushes her fingers apart just a smidge.

"We don't all have webbing," she reminds him, eying the extra skin between his fingers with a barely-there smirk.

He smiles. "Even so, if your fingers are splayed it makes a difference."

She nods and looks to where his hand hasn't left hers, forcing the rising blush away.

With the clear of his throat, Kaldur pulls away. "Let me see you try," he instructs.

Arms up, she begins to stroke the air. She just barely catches Kaldur shake his head. "You're too stiff," he says. "Let your arms move—really _move_."

Resisting the urge to grunt impatiently, she lowers her arms and crosses them across her chest. "Can I just—can you show me? Actually in the water?"

Kaldur nods once, turning so he can dive into the water.

Artemis swallows as she catches the muscles on his back bunch and move with his arms, his dark tattoos almost _rippling_ with the water.

_Focus, Crock_.

She takes a deep breath and actually watches him swim, noting the way his arm moves in smooth strokes, fluid and easy. His feet barely make a splash, yet she can see the power behind the kicking motions.

He surfaces at the other end and turns so he can watch her. "Care to join me over here?"

Going over his instructions one more time, Artemis pulls her goggles over her eyes before pushing off the pool's floor and into the water.

It _feels_ better—natural, not as if she's struggling to stay afloat.

But then she reaches the side, and she remembers that this area of the water is far too deep for her to stand. She tries to maintain some sort of dignity next to Kaldur, who's staying on top of the water as though it's nothing (granted, for him, it probably is).

"Artemis," he says, and she ceases her splashing. "Relax. And just tread the water."

"How, exactly?" it comes out shorter than she meant, but by this point she's already swallowed more water than she's comfortable with.

"Kick your legs as though you were swimming," he says, beginning to draw closer to her. "And move your arms in steady, strong circles."

She takes a deep breath and does as he instructs, and suddenly her head is actually above the water's surface. But in her attempt to widen her arms farther, push herself farther up, she doesn't notice Kaldur is just an armspan to her right, and her hand ends up dragging across his arms and torso.

When the Atlantean stiffens, she's not quite sure what to make of the situation. Kaldur bites his lip, his muscles going rigid and he even bobs underneath the water for a moment before coming back up.

"Good," he says tersely. "I think we can call it a day for now."

She frowns and tilts her ahead. "Everything okay, Kaldur?"

(_she's your teammate she's your friend she didn't know about the marks she doesn't understand what touching them does_ –)

He lets a breath out through his nose. "Everything's fine. The tattoos are just—"

_Ah_.

"Sensitive," she finishes. She's not stupid—she knew the look on Kaldur's face all-too-well: that of a teenage boy fighting to keep his hormones in check. It would crop up on Wally's face every-so-often when M'gann would touch his arm or his shoulder.

Kaldur grimaces at how quickly she makes the connection, clearly wishing the implications were different, but nods. "They act as channels for magic, and as such tend to be affected by touch. Particularly in the water." He looks away.

(_shouldn't have told her that much shouldn't have gotten that close shouldn't feel like this shouldnotshouldnotshouldnot _–)

She raises a brow and tries not to smirk _too _much. "I'll keep it mind, then."

The surprise on his face makes it worth it.

A few days and a lesson or two later—when she's tracing patterns across his back, with fingers running over the marks and letting her breath ghost everywhere across his back and shoulders forcing him to hold back breathy moans—he understands what she means. She never forgets, either, and it's a rare occasion he regrets telling her.

It's some time before he finds an equivalent sensitivity for her, as she lacks an obvious erogenous zone where his are clearly marked. At least, her skin does, and later he'll hit himself for limiting himself, because Artemis' most obvious feature is just what happens to be what he's trying to find.

Referring to her hair, of course-of which Artemis has a significant amount.

Not that he's complaining. It's soft and big and wild and smells _wonderful_—something earthy and musky, so downright _Artemis_. He's almost certain he can't get tired of it despite the ridiculous, almost obscene amount that just gets _everywhere_.

It's particularly obvious when someone is messing or toying with it with it, like how M'gann is braiding it right now.

He finds it astonishing, how easily she can drive him crazy without even realizing. She's just _sitting there_, letting M'gann run her fingers through her long hair, twining and plaiting it down her back. But the look of sheer satisfaction—eyes closed, lips _just _barely parted, her breath occasionally coming in soft little sighs—tells him she's getting more out of this than the martian. It's a maddening expression, warming his blood and he can _feel_ his skin growing more sensitive.

So it's really not his fault that he figures it out—with that much hair, he was bound to eventually.

They're kissing, nothing really out of the norm, and she's running her hands up and down his shoulders, over his tattoos, making him shudder from his position over her. His own hands are in the length of her gold-blonde hair, gripping the strands between his fingers. Suddenly, she drags a nail, not enough to scratch but enough to make him jump, and he inadvertently tugs her hair.

The yelp of pain he expected quickly shifts into a moan of satisfaction, and he pulls away to look at her. Meeting her gray eyes with his silver, he arches a brow.

"What?" she asks, blinking and arching her brows right back.

He smirks. "Sensitive?"

Now her eyes narrow. "No. Not at all."

He lowers his head to her neck, breathing steadily but never coming into contact, making her squirm. "You're certain?"

"Completely, hundred percent certain."

"So the moan was just a coincidence."

"Yes, just a –" he interrupts her there, tugging her hair once more, and the grunt tells him all he needs to know. "Maybe just a little sensitive," she finally concedes, "but—"

He cuts her off again as his mouth attaches to the skin of her collarbone, his hands still persistently pulling and toying with her hair.

When he pulls away to find her bottom lip far more swollen than he remembers, he knows that he's found the leverage he's been looking for.


End file.
